Sally Swezey afflicted the telephone with gossip: "As Mrs. Talbot was
saying only yes'day, my dear, so many folks have threatened to visit
you in your home on Fifth Avenue that you'll have to hang hammocks in
your front yard."

And now they had spoiled even her future for her. What pride could she
take in having a gorgeous home on Fifth Avenue with all these Carthage
people rocking on the front porch. Probably some warm evening when
Mrs. Hotel Vanderbilt was driving by in her new barouche, it would be
just like Roscoe Detwiller to turn in at the gate, flounce down on the
top step and sit there with his vest unbuttoned, and his seersucker
coat under his arm, while he mopped the inside of his hat with his
handkerchief.

But that was the discomfort of the morrow. To-day had its own spawn.
One morning she was called to the telephone by the merciless Sallie
Swezey with a new infliction. There was something almost ghoulish in
Mrs. Swezey's cackling glee as she sang out across the wire:

"We're all so glad, my dear, that the next meeting of the Progressive
Euchre is to be at your house."

Mrs. Budlong's chin dropped. She had quite forgotten this. Sallie
chortled on:

"And say, do you know what?"

"What?"